


these are the words and ways that mean 'i love you'

by Lyre (Lyrecho)



Category: Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy - Cassandra Clare, The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, As In George Lovelace, F/M, Oneshot, Post Angels Twice Descending, book canon, he does not die, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Lyre
Summary: George Lovelace drinks from the Mortal Cup.He burns. He drowns.He lives.(a snapshot from a world much kinder than our own)|Tumblr||Twitter|
Relationships: Clary Fray & Simon Lewis, Simon Lewis & George Lovelace, Simon Lewis/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	these are the words and ways that mean 'i love you'

**Author's Note:**

> \- started a reread of tsc from the very start and i remembered how much angels twice descending hurt me so i decided to fix it because I Have That Power
> 
> \- i have yet to actually reread any of tftsa so (waves hand at canon) eh
> 
> \- i have not watched the tv show
> 
> \- more of this au will be coming
> 
> \- it's midnight where i'm at rn and i just finished this so please forgive me any typos i'll fix em later maybe idk

“Ah,” says George, and the grin is so clear in his voice that Simon doesn’t need to look back at him to see it, “you haven’t decided on a name yet, have you?”

Directly across from where Simon lays flopped out on a couch that’s definitely more for aesthetic function than comfort, Clary jolts.  _ “Simon,”  _ she says, somewhere between scandalised, accusing, and deeply, deeply amused, “really? All this time, and you haven’t -- ”

Simon curls in on himself, just a little bit. “Well, I didn’t really think it was going to be all that important,” he defends, even though he knows he’s still put way too much thought into it only to end up coming up with nothing. “It’s not like I’d have it for all that long, anyway, or pass it on -- give it a few years, and I’ll be taking Isabelle’s.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he freezes, because he can’t believe he said them. He can’t believe he ever even _ thought _ them, actually - only, yes he can, because what he and Isabelle have is special, and what they had was something like that, too. It’s nice, to finally be able to remember that clearly.  _ More  _ than nice.

_ Stop thinking about Isabelle,  _ he tells himself, firmly, thankful that, while he’s been internally panicking, George and Clary haven’t said a word to tease him -- only exchanged amused glances, which is bad enough, anyway.

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Clary agrees, and just as clear in her voice as George’s earlier smile is her laughter. Simon hates his friends. He hates them a lot. “But, Simon -- you know the Clave isn’t going to just accept ‘I’ll marry into the Lightwood name within the decade’ as a reason for you to not have a Shadowhunter name on record, right?”

“At least if I did that I wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with a name,” Simon points out. “If that’s how I propose to Isabelle, she’ll kill me.”

Clary grins. “C’mon,” she coaxes. “It’s been _ months. _ You’ve got to have _ some _ ideas, at the very least.”

“I had, like, _ one  _ solid one, but then I decided it was too embarrassing.”

Her grin only widens. “Perfect,” she purrs. “What was it?”

“...Skywalker,” Simon mumbles.

Delight, clear, bright and true, dances across Clary’s face. “Oh, I love that. The Clave will just take it at face value, but the people who know will _ know.” _

“It’s better than my idea,” George admits, but he doesn’t quite sound happy about it -- Clary doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, from how her smile never falters, her attention never flicking away from Simon, but Simon  _ knows  _ George, and he hears how his teasing is forced. Subdued.

He frowns, and pushes himself up onto his elbows, twisting so his eyes leave Clary’s and meet George’s. “What was your idea?”

There’s a faint red climbing high across George’s face, crawling down his neck; a blush even Simon can’t miss. He mumbles something indistinct, something Simon can’t quite catch, and he raises a brow. George sighs, and rolls his eyes, but dutifully repeats his words, louder and with a clear air of _ I Don’t Want To Be Here. _ “I said,” George says, “I would have offered Lovelace.”

It’s silent. Simon doesn’t think any of them are breathing, in that moment -- he certainly isn’t, as his lungs grow tight with the breath he can’t remember how to release. His mind scrambles for equilibrium, as a deep warmth unfurls in his chest, both welcoming and painful.

George isn’t looking at him, again, those red blotches darker against his suddenly pale skin -- his hands are fists in his lap, his knuckles bone white. Simon is sure, in that moment, that if he’d still been a vampire, he would’ve been able to smell the blood he _ knows _ is welling up from the half-moon wounds George’s nails are carving into his palms.

“That’s perfect,” Clary says softly. “If George is still offering it -- Simon, I think you should take it.”

He can hear his best friend’s words, her support, but truthfully, Simon isn’t paying her much attention. He’s too focused on George, still curled away from him.

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

George flinches, faint, but there. His gaze flicks to Clary, before he seemingly makes the decision to ignore her the best he can, and simply focus on Simon.

“Si,” he says, and this might be the most serious Simon has ever heard him, “you know I would have offered to become your parabatai.”

The word is barely out of his mouth before Clary’s gasped, a short, half-strangled thing sucked in through her teeth, and Simon glances at her automatically, to see her eyes wide and fixed on George, an almost hurtful amount of surprise on her face.

He can get that, a little bit -- they’ve always been _SimonandClary,_ _LewisandFray,_ and nothing had ever broken that; not the Shadow world, not him turning into a vampire, not even their admittedly ill-advised attempt at turning SimonandClary into Simon/Clary. Even after a demon had wiped his memory of her, there had been a part of him that had _never_ forgotten her, because they’ve never needed a mystical soulbound to be a part of each other. Even when Clary hadn’t been a name he could recall, even when red hair and green eyes and paint-stained clothes had meant nothing to him, he’d carried her with him, a weight of grief he hadn’t realised he’d been bearing until she’d stood in front of him and he could _breathe_ again.

So, yeah, he can understand her shock, that in the past few months he’s grown close enough to someone else that the idea of forming such a bond with someone other than her could ever even be a  _ possibility. _ Or, at least, that such a thing could happen with someone she didn’t  _ also _ know, because in a way, everyone and everything that had ever been  _ Simon’s _ had been  _ Clary’s _ first. The Shadow world had been her birthright, and he’d clawed his way in sacrifice by sacrifice because he just hadn’t been able to lose her. Izzy, Jace, Alec and Magnus -- all hers, first. Jordan and Maia had been  _ his, _ but like everything else in their lives, they’d ended up not being solely his; at this point, considering everything, he was pretty sure Maia was probably closer to Clary, anyway.

George, though...George was his.  _ His, _ in a way not even Jordan nor Maia had ever been. Clary was his best friend, but George had been something else, had  _ become _ something else, something that had bound them together in a way no one would ever be able to touch, not even Clary.

He was his  _ brother. _

“I never asked, not really,” George is saying quietly, to Clary, Simon realises, once he’s wrangled his way out of his own head. “Even as I considered it...I knew, I always knew, that it wouldn’t matter, because he had  _ you.” _ As if sensing Simon’s eyes on him, as if sensing that Simon was paying attention once more, George looks directly at him. “I thought, the Lovelace name…” he trails off, and looks away. “It’s not quite the same thing as being parabatai, but I...I want to be bound to you, Simon. Linked, in...some way, you know?” He finishes, partway between apologetic and pleading.

Simon is still. He knows that if he doesn’t get himself together  _ really _ soon, he’s going to be crying, and then his glasses are going to fog up, and that just isn’t going to be pretty for anybody. 

Clary fidgets in her seat, eyes flicking from George to Simon and back again, a faint guilt in her downturned mouth, like she isn’t sure if she should be staying in the room with them or not. Simon meets her gaze during one pass, and in response to the silent question she sends him, he shrugs. She can go if she wants, if she feels awkward, but her presence here also soothes him, and gives him the strength and confidence to do what he does next.

“I think,” he says, “that after a while, part of my reluctance to try and think up a new name for myself...was that I was kind of hoping to use one that was already out there, but I didn’t even realise that’s what I was doing.”

George’s head shoots up from where he’s looking down at his feet, something like a faint hope of his own sparking to life in them. Clary gingerly rises from her seat. “I’m just...going to give you two a minute,” she says. 

Once she’s left, the door clicking shut quietly behind her, Simon continues on. “I honestly considered Fairchild at first,” he admits, and keeps talking before George can deflate all the way. “Even without my memories, I knew Clary was important to me in a way nothing else had ever been, or would ever be. If I asked, I know both she and Jocelyn would be more than happy to let them use their name -- same with Luke too, now that I think about it, though it hadn’t even crossed my mind at the time -- but as easy as that would have been, I didn’t just want to take the easy way out and ask one of the like, three or four Shadowhunter families I have connections to if they could do me a solid. I wanted something with  _ meaning.” _

George’s lips quirk up into a faint smile. “And Skywalker had this meaning, Padawan?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “I feel an urge to remind you that while you’ve still got me beat in hand-to-hand, George, I have impeccable aim,” he says airily. 

“You’re carrying neither your knives nor your bow,” George points out, and he is correct, but also a fool.

“I have shoes,” Simon says. “Two of them, and many more improvised projectiles around me.” He gestures at the cushions of the couch he’s lying across. “Do not tempt me into throwing things at you, George. You  _ won’t _ be able to dodge them.” George grins, and Simon sighs. “Skywalker was just...well, I’ve never tried to deny that I’m a dork, or a nerd. I like Star Wars, and the temptation was...strong.”

George snorts. “Well, Si -- I mean, I’d give you shit for the rest of our lives, but I honestly would not be able to blame you. If I had the option, maybe I’d go for Skywalker, too. Channel my inner Jedi.”

Simon tilts his head. “Could you do that?” He asks, curious. “I know you’re a Lovelace, but -- you’re technically an Ascendant, like me.  _ Could _ you change your name, if you wanted?”

George frowns. “I never asked,” he says, “but I do like being a Lovelace, as cool as Skywalker would be.”

“Or Windwhistler,” Simon suggests.

George narrows his eyes at him. “That’s a My Little Pony, isn’t it.”

“It suits you.”

“You’re not the only person in this room with improvised projectiles at hand, Si. Or  _ shoes.” _

“Sure, but I  _ am _ the only person in this room with aim that isn’t  _ shit -- ” _

“Fighting words, Lewis,” George says softly, and then there’s a weird moment where they both flinch, and reality resettles around them. George clears his throat. “And I’ll have you know, my aim is  _ fine.” _

“Not compared to mine,” Simon shoots back automatically, as they both neatly step around the second elephant George so gracefully led into the room. Sort of, at least.

“I really did mean it, you know,” George says, softly, finally. “Lovelace. It’s yours, if you want it.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Simon remarks, trying for levity while his heart chokes on affection, “I’d say that was a very romantic proposal, George Lovelace.”

George laughs, neither hysterical nor bitter, but riding an edge somewhat similar to both. “If it weren’t for Clary, I would have asked you to be my parabatai,” he whispers, “and if not for Isabelle Lightwood, I might have asked you to marry me, yes. Alas,  _ women.” _

“Women,” Simon agrees. “Sorry for being straight.”

“Get that on a shirt,” George says. “And then get me one.”

“You’re not straight, though.”

“But Jace Herondale is, right? I want to make a good first impression.”

Simon laughs, and the pressure in the air between them lessens some. “You really mean it?”

“About giving Jace a  _ sorry for being straight _ shirt? Absolutely. Maybe I should get him a  _ i’m sorry women _ hat to match -- ”

“About the name.”

George pauses, and his glittering, amused smirk fades into something softer, almost unbearably fond. “When have I ever lied to you, Simon Lewis?”

Simon raises a brow.

“When have I ever lied to you about something important,” George amends, “especially something as important as this?”

“Simon Lovelace,” Simon says, whispers, slow and hesitant, like he’s trying to taste each syllable as it falls from his lips.

George lights up. “It suits you,” he says.

“You think?”

“The Lovelace name is a special one,” George says. “It suits pretty much everyone, you see -- one name fits all. But...you, it suits especially well.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, George,” Simon murmurs, and turns the name over in his mind again.  _ Simon Lovelace. _ It  _ does  _ have a certain ring to it, he can admit. It feels more like something that could be him, something that he could live up to, more than he ever could Fairchild or Lightwood or even Skywalker.

“Have you...asked your parents?”

George waves him off. “They’ve already adopted you,” he says. “You’re all they ever talk about in their letters. It’s never ‘how are you, son?’ but always ‘how’s Simon, son? Is he eating enough? Tell him we’ll send him a care package.’”

“I love your parents,” Simon declares.

“Me, too,” George says. “You know, now that I didn’t end up being turned into an angelic spray of red mist, I feel kind of silly for insisting that my parents not come to the Ascension ceremony. Though, it’s not really like it was a thrilling turn of events for the outsiders -- we basically all just drank from a cup.” His brows draw together. “Do you think they wiped the cup down between each Ascendant, or did our entire class just share secondhand kisses?”

“What are you, twelve?” Simon shakes his head. “I bet your parents are either already here or on their way, though,” he says. “They probably got word that you’d survived your Ascension the moment it happened.”

George hums thoughtfully. “Our parents,” he says finally, and Simon can only blink.

“Excuse me?”

“In cases when Ascendant Shadowhunters take on a pureblood name, they’re wards of the family -- technically, this is already agreed upon, because the family whose name you’re taking on is the family that nominated you for Ascension, anyway -- so if you decide that you really do want to stick with Lovelace...legally, you’d become the child of the current head of the family, and that’s my mother.”

_ “Huh,” _ Simon says, honestly not surprised that this is an aspect of the Ascension ceremony that George knew about but he didn’t -- after all, even though he hadn’t been a Shadowhunter by birth, George had been raised a Lovelace. Simon was just some scrappy nerd from Brooklyn. He thinks of his mother, and of the broken duality of her in his mind -- the mother of the last time he’d seen her, and the mother of the time before that, before she, like him, had forgotten everything...the mother that had plastered their house with religious symbol on top of religious symbol after throwing him out, the  _ monster _ that had twisted her lips and hissed out between her teeth. The fear in her eyes, the hate in every shaking limb. 

He thinks of Rebecca, and how she’d always been there from him, even when he’d bared his fangs at her and expected her to run.

He loves them both, even as he feels the distance that’s grown between them from nothing but the choices he’s made about his life, his future. Loves his mother, and his sister, though he knows that the best way to show that love is to keep them safe, and  _ at _ a distance.

_ Simon Lovelace, _ he thinks, just once more. “I’ve always wanted a bigger family,” he says quietly, and smiles up at George.

He hears George’s breath catch. “Then -- ?”

“I like it,” Simon says. “Simon Lovelace. I think I’ll go with that.”

“I need to write Mum and Dad  _ immediately,” _ George says, grinning free and bright, and looking more relaxed -- more  _ free _ \-- than he has all day. “Simon, you wait here.”

And then he’s gone, and of course Simon isn’t going to listen to him. He pokes his head out of the room he’d been placed in after he’d survived drinking from the Cup; apparently for some it was a more tiring ordeal than most, and so the newly Ascended were kept under observation in quiet comfort for a day or two after their ceremony. He can’t see George, or even Clary, but sitting on the ground by the door that opened into his room is someone he absolutely hadn’t expected to see.

His heart skips a beat. “Isabelle?”

Isabelle Lightwood looks up at him with a smile that’s as brilliant as it is wary, and Simon cannot understand how he ever forgot her. 

“Hi,” she says, and pushes herself to her feet. “I see you’re still alive.” Her gaze narrows, and she looks him up and down critically. “Not feeling any urges to, say, spontaneously burst into Heavenly Fire?”

Simon snorts. “Please,” he says. “I’m not  _ Jace, _ Izzy.”

Something indecipherable flickers across her face, an emotion Simon has no idea how to read, before she takes a step closer to him. “You remember,” she whispers. “It worked -- you really do remember.” A shaking hand reaches out, reaches for his cheek, and he brings up his own to hold it there, letting their fingers intertwine. 

“I remember,” he promises.

She laughs, startled and instinctive and true, and suddenly she’s in his arms, tugging him down and holding him close. “I love you,” she murmurs against his neck, voice quiet and just for him alone.

He tilts his head so his lips rest against her ear. “I know,” he says.

Isabelle giggles. “Is that our thing now?”

“It could be our thing,” Simon allows, and smiles against her skin. “I think I’d take Han Solo over Lord Montgomery.”

“I liked Lord Montgomery,” Izzy muses. “We could have both?” she says it so brightly that Simon can’t find it in him to say  _ No, _ and then they’re both laughing. When they pull away from each other, their arms still rest around each other’s waists. “Clary says you were having a crisis about your Shadowhunter name,” she says. “You know, any one of us could sponsor you -- I bet Jace’s face would be  _ hilarious _ if you asked him to let you be a Herondale -- ”

“The last thing I want to do,” Simon says, “is add to Jace’s ongoing identity crisis. With Clary, it -- it’s too close, you know?”

Isabelle’s eyes are dark when she asks her next question. “And Lightwood?”

“When I take the Lightwood name,” Simon says slowly, and doesn’t really notice how Isabelle’s eyes widen, “I want it to be because the time is right, and it’s what we’ve chosen. Not because the Clave says I need a fancier name than ‘Lewis’ to put on their paperwork.” Just as the final word leaves his lips, the first one hits him like a truck, and he’s backpedalling out of panic before his brain can catch up to the rest of him at all.  _ “If,” _ he hisses, insists. “Fuck, Izzy, I didn’t mean it like that -- if,  _ if, _ not  _ when, _ okay?”

But Isabelle doesn’t seem to be paying him any mind at all, face a steadily deepening red, expression pleased.  _ “When,” _ she mumbles, and giggles to herself, before seeming to pull herself together. “If not any of our names, what did you settle on, then? Your friend left in such a good mood that I assume you figured it out. Oh!” She lights up. “Was it Skywalker?”

“No, but you have a brilliant mind,” Simon says. “Actually, I...I’m going with Lovelace.”

Isabelle pauses, going completely still for a moment as she processes that. She glances over her shoulder, in what Simon can only assume is the direction George bolted in.

“I can see that,” she says finally. “You suit each other.” 

“You think so?”

“I know what brothers look like,” Isabelle reminds him. “I grew up with three of them.”

“That warms my heart more than you know, Iz.”

“That’s because you’re a sap, and I know you, Lewis.” She pauses. “Or, well, Lovelace, I suppose.”

“You can call me Lewis, if you want,” Simon says softly. “I don’t think Clary will stop calling me that, either.”

“Ever,” Isabelle agrees. “But you know the Clave won’t be happy about that.”

“Fuck the Clave,” Simon says brightly, like they’re not currently standing in a hall at the very heart  _ of _ the Clave.

Isabelle laughs, and pulls him in for another kiss, soft and sweet. “You’re terrible,” she informs him.

“Incorrigible,” Simon agrees. 

“Sickening,” George cuts in, and they both jump apart from each other. “Sickeningly sweet, you two are.”

Simon runs a hand through his hair as he tries to get his heart rate back under control. Isabelle narrows her eyes at George. 

“What are your intentions,” she asks slowly, “with my boyfriend?”

George raises a brow at her. “What are  _ your _ intentions,” he asks back, in the same tone, “with  _ my _ brother?”

They consider each other for a moment -- a long, drawn out moment in which Simon has no idea what is going on.

“Then we understand each other,” Isabelle says, finally, and George gives one firm nod.

“Perfectly,” he agrees.

“I don’t understand anything,” Simon complains.

“Don’t worry about it.” They speak in unison. That’s very worrying, actually, but Simon’s not going to bring that up. 

“Come on,” Isabelle says, and reaches down to take Simon’s hand in hers. Her Voyance rune glimmers like black starlight between the gaps of where his fingers rest -- it hits Simon in that moment that, though his own skin is bare now, soon it will be as Marked and scarred as Isabelle’s is. “Everyone is waiting to see you. I think Jace put money on you not remembering a thing, so you have to play along until you make him cry, because he really has missed you, you know.”

Simon grins. “That’s evil,” he says appreciatively, and Izzy’s only response is a demure shrug.

“Well, once you’ve finished fucking with Jace Herondale,” George says, taking up Simon’s free hand in his own, “you were right, and my parents  _ are _ here, and we’re gonna have to talk to them at some point tonight about how they’ve gained a new fully grown son.” Simon hums out a yes, but his attention is on George’s hand clasped around his, bare skin on bare skin. No adornments, no Marks. They’ll be getting their first permanent ones together, soon. This is his life now. 

Huh.

“Simon?” Isabelle’s voice, cutting through the fog that always intrudes when he’s thinking deep thoughts. “What’s got you so distracted?”

“The future,” Simon says, and grips tight both of the hands he holds. They squeeze back, just as tight.

“The future,” George echoes, thoughtful.

Isabelle steps forward, to open up a set of doors that lead to, Simon imagines, their loved ones. The people that will make up the rest of their lives.

He and George exchange a glance, and Isabelle makes her way back to Simon’s side.

As one, the three of them step through the doors.

_ “Our _ future,” Isabelle says.

The doors swing shut behind them.


End file.
